


JAOA: Stage Six

by BlackRose (darthneko)



Series: JAOA [22]
Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-11-30
Updated: 2001-11-30
Packaged: 2017-10-25 21:30:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/274988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darthneko/pseuds/BlackRose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nightmares.</p>
            </blockquote>





	JAOA: Stage Six

**JAOA: Stage Six  
Year of the Republic 20,002**

* * *

It wasn't real. He hadn't been there. He tried to tell himself that, repeating it like a mantra against the phantom images of his own dreaming mind.

It _wasn't_ real. He _hadn't_ been there.

But he could smell the charge of the air, crackling with the energy of the shields, harsh and stifling. He could feel its prickle against his skin as he strained, as close as he dared, every muscle tensed and ready. It wasn't real. It wasn't real.

But when the thin whine of the shields hit a new note, heralding the change of the cycle, he flung himself forward all the same as the barrier came down. A headlong dash, the corridor streaking past him, and all he could see, all he could think of, was the two distant figures locked in combat at the end of the passage, lightsabers a brilliant whirl of green and red.

It wasn't _real_.

And it didn't matter.

He heard the cycle change again and knew he didn't have time - the last barrier drew him up short, one outstretched hand singed by it, and through its blood tinted haze he could see the deadly dance unfold before him while he stood, helpless and trapped.

So strong, in his prime, a towering giant of a man to a child's eyes - movement with grace and power and purpose, fluid and deadly, the lightsaber an extension of his large hands. But the black robed Sith was younger, quicker, the double edged red blade whirling to block every strike, and even through the haze of the shield he could see the lines of determined effort framing the mouth beneath the larger man's neat beard, the deepend marks around eyes narrowed with fatigue.

Everything was blurring, overlapped and dizzying. The mid-morning sun was growing hot on his neck, the sand slipping and deep beneath his stumbling feet as he ran, ran from a nightmare, from a black robed demon with a red blade as his savior yelled at him to go while he met the demon head on. Two figures, blades dancing in the desert brightness around the yawning pit of an exhaust conduit, and he, trapped behind a shield, immobile and silent witness to the horror.

He hadn't been there. Force, he *hadn't* been there, and he didn't want to see.

But it was too late. And there the blow came, a strike across the chin that cracked Qui-Gon's head back, sent him stumbling. And in that one moment of weakness the demon struck, blade searing through the broad chest to emerge, blood red, from the Jedi Master's back. He found his voice then, giving vent to what seared lungs could not, the scream dredged from his depths in abject denial.

And behind the barrier of the shield, the Sith turned, the black hood falling back as the nightmare met his eyes.

His own eyes, pale blue beneath a sandy fall of hair, but there were the fine lines of Amidala's bones wrought in the youthful cheeks and he had her smile, so very innocent looking in a face splattered with blood like a mockery of vivid tattoos. One black gloved hand raised the saber and he recognized his own single blade, the casing his own hands had built. The black clad figure flourished it in a salute, stepping across the body of the fallen Master and he was panicking, the scream unending, even as the shields cycled through once more -

"Master! Sith... Master! Anakin!"

Anakin came awake with a jolt, the scream soundless on his lips. Gasping, he pushed himself up, hand flailing against an attack that wasn't there.

Han jumped back slightly, his own hastily thrown up hand catching the man's wrist. Anakin blinked at him, drawing in a slow breath before catching himself. His Padawan. His quarters. His own room, his own sleeping couch. A dream. Nothing but a dream.

"Are you all right?" Han asked, his look dubious. The boy was, Anakin noted dimly, stronger than he looked - his grasp on Anakin's wrist was firm, fingertips resting above the nerve centers where a quick dig of thumb and forefinger would render the restrained hand numb if needed.

"Yes." The words felt thick on Anakin's tongue and he cleared his throat, swallowing. "It was..." - nightmare, memory, a horrific flash of something that he didn't want to see - "...just a dream."

" _Just_ a dream?" No one could sound quite as skeptical as a teenage boy. "Are you _sure_ you're all right? Because you don't look it."

Blunt as always. It made Anakin smile, despite the tremors still darting through him. "I'll be fine." He tugged his wrist away from the boy's grasp, running a hand through the sweat damp fringe of his hair. Han let him go reluctantly, sitting back on his heels beside the couch, elbows on his thighs. It was the early hours of the morning, Anakin realized; the boy was in thin sleep trousers, hair tousled, his cheek imprinted with the folds of his bed. "Padawan... I'm sorry."

"For what?" Honestly puzzled, Han followed Anakin's gaze, glancing down at himself. "Oh - for waking me up? Don't be." Dark eyes turned back to the older man, a worried frown drawing down the brows. "I couldn't wake _you_ up. You were thrashing around, but your eyes were open... look, are you _sure_? I could call the healers... or Master Kenobi..."

"No!" It came out sharper then he intended and Anakin bit the word back, making himself take another deep breath. "No, Han, don't disturb them. I'll be fine."

There were a thousand unsaid things in the stubborn set of the boy's mouth and frown, and all of them were calling him a liar. Anakin sat up, scrubbing again at a scalp that seemed too tight for his skull. "A cup of tea wouldn't be amiss," he suggested weakly.

Han made a disgusted noise but scrambled to his feet. "I'll go make some."

Anakin watched him go. Breathing out slowly, he scrubbed fiercely at his bare arms. The lingering horror of the dream didn't want to be released into the Force; it clung to him, like a scent steeped into his skin, crawling through his nerves. Gritting his teeth, he deliberately pushed it away. It was only a dream. A nightmare. Nothing more.

He breathed out once more, the breath hissing through his teeth. Just a dream. Out in the main room, he could hear the splash of water and the clatter as Han reached down the tea canister from the cabinet. Shaking himself all over, Anakin pushed back the covers and got to his feet, going to join his Padawan.

[to next stage...]


End file.
